


Shirt Tails

by CaptainCrozier



Series: Forged In Ice [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Established Relationship, Fashion & Couture, M/M, Romance, Shopping, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 05:53:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16717653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainCrozier/pseuds/CaptainCrozier
Summary: After their rescue and resignation from the navy, James finally gets Francis to accompany him to the tailor, and the cobbler and the haberdashery... The whole thing is just one awful trial for the former Captain as his lover bounds about selecting fabrics and preaching about the newest cuts of trousers, but Francis will do anything for James and slowly he realises, it was never about fashion, it was more like retail therapy.This is unadulterated fluff for no reason at all.Forged in Ice series, but stands alone too.





	Shirt Tails

James was irrepressible, and it was beginning to become rather wearing.

Francis sat opposite him, one hand steepled over his forehead as he leaned against the carriage door as though the shield of his fingers might defend him from the interminable onslaught of good cheer. On Fitzjames’s lap a copy of the _Gentleman’s Gazette_ lay folded open at a double spread of illustration from London’s most prestigious West End tailors, and on the seat beside him an itinerary of the day, meticulously annotated and scribed in his own cut glass calligraphy. James had been pouring over it and redrafting for days, scrawling cryptic notes about collars and buttons and occasionally adding his own designs in hastily sketched black ink. More planning had gone into the damn trip than Crozier remembered ever having done during their escape from the bloody arctic.

‘Jennings first,’ James said, as though Francis was not already aware of stage one of his torment, ‘We will have you measured and then proceed to then select the cloth. There is a fine Haberdashers a little down the street, oh and Mullins the shirt maker…. And you will need boots. I used to go to Parker for those, but I cannot see it now in the _Gazette_ , I hope he has not retired, he has a wonderful selection of leather….’

Crozier’s head tipped back against the seat.

He had long since run out of excuses to delay this voyage into London and employed every diversionary tactic known to man. The snow had returned in January long enough to persuade James to stay indoors but after several weeks and the dratted betrayal of the seasons as the earth warmed and melted his ally, Francis had been forced to think quickly on an almost daily basis. He feigned weakness, exhaustion, the return of his headaches, and when his list of ailments ran thin relied upon distracting James regularly by other means, which was a relatively simple thing to do as the man woke warm and contented in his arms and the weather was still cold enough to excuse a long lie in.

Francis had the ability to turn an extra hour in bed quite easily into three or four, thus not only prolonging their enjoyment of the morning but making a two hour ride to the city in the back of a bumpy carriage both undesirable and logistically impossible.

James was having none of it today. Try as he might to hold him within the cosy confines of their bed Francis had watched with dismay as James had sprung from it e’en before sunrise and clattered about the room with excitable determination, ordering Francis from beneath the sheets upon pain of dinner with Lady Franklin if he so much as tried to refuse.

In the carriage James was talking about cravats again and a jeweller he fancied stopping into on the hunt for a new set of cufflinks. Francis closed his eyes and let his body shudder with the rattle of the wheels beneath on cobbles. They were almost at their destination. He wondered if either of them would be likely to survive the length of the day.

 

 

James was still in the window of the premises, by a large table groaning with selected cloths. He had been there at least an hour, probably more like two, but when Francis checked his pocket watch he could only conclude the damn thing had stopped at twenty minutes. Best not tell James, he would have then visit a watchmaker too. Francis tucked it away and looked down.

There was a man crouched at his feet with a tape, measuring his calves of all things, apparently the fashion was a tightly tailored style which elongated the leg. James had already ordered half a dozen pairs of the ridiculous trousers in various shades of blues and greys and creams. He was quite sure James’s elegant limbs could carry off such a style, but Crozier had no desire whatsoever to look like a frog, dangled by its throat, all puffed chest and spindling awkward legs.

‘You will cut these straight as requested,’ he grumbled to the tailor.

‘Sir James had requested…’

‘Straight,’ Francis said.

‘Do you dress to the left or the right, sir?’ the boy peered up at him. Dear God.

‘What? Why in Christ’s name does that matter?’

‘Well the cut is rather tailored sir, and for comfort…’

‘The left,’ James said behind him. Crozier flushed scarlet.

‘For… Christ’s sake, James!’

‘Well it is accurate is it not?’ James said snootily, ‘And he will take the tailored cut, Samuel, as agreed.’

‘They are bloody ridiculous!’

‘They will look quite fetching I assure you.’

‘On you maybe!’

‘Francis you do yourself down, you have a splendid shape,’ James tapped Samuel’s crouched knee with the tip of his boot, ‘Doesn’t he, my man?’

‘Oh, absolutely sir, Mr Crozier has a fine figure. There is a manly strength in his shoulders and legs and a goodly proportion all over.’ He grinned pleasantly up at his customer.

Francis glared down at him, the boy’s face level with his crotch. The lad held the tip of the tape delicately between finger and thumb.

‘Inside leg, sir, just a moment.’

Francis snapped his eyes up and stared straight ahead. Unfortunately, James stood before him draped resplendently with crimson damasks he had hauled to peruse while Francis was tortured. They were laid over his arms and one over his shoulder in a dozen hues of red all but one shade from the next. Lord they would be here all day, nay all week while he selected his preference and then they would probably move onto green. When the boy was done sticking brass tipped tape into every cranny of Crozier’s body, James beckoned his companion over to the table.

‘Come, come, I wish to discuss waistcoats.’

Francis trudged over to where half the damned shop was piled before him in swatches and rolled yards. He put his hands on his hips.

‘Waistcoats,’ he sighed.

‘Yes, waistcoats, for they are the statement garment within the ensemble.’ He bent over the table and inspected his various prizes in purple and green satins and a garish yellow silk. ‘Isn’t this rather exciting, Francis, I mean to be able to wear something that is not blue!’

‘I rather like blue,’ he quibbled praying he was not about to be dressed up like a damn carnival performer. James clicked his tongue and looked back at the pile.

‘I did not bring any blue,’ he said with a hint of remorse, ‘But ah! Here look at this!’ James reached for a pale primrose yellow swatch decorated in swirling floral blooms of cornflower blue and rose. Crozier raised his eyebrows.

‘Truly, James?’

‘I think its exquisite look at the stitching!’

Francis sighed. James shot him an exasperated look. ‘It is going on the pile.’

‘Which pile?’

‘The pile of possibility,’ James moved it to the left where it teetered upon a stack of other ornately embroidered cloths. Francis sat down in the nearest chair.

 

 

After the tailor came the shirtmaker wherein Francis was measured yet again, and James, growing impatient with the range of linens and the time it took to wriggle Crozier in and out of layers of too tight borrowed coats, nipped across the road to his fabled jeweller to inspect cufflinks. Just when Francis thought escape was possible the shoemaker beckoned and in the cobbler James insisted upon selecting a number of high topped and even more highly polished boots, to be worn, he said over the ridiculous slim cut trousers.

 Francis watched him strut about the premises, trying each and ordering adjustments while the cobbler measured his own feet with more tapes and devices. James poured over leathers in browns and blacks and even picked out a startling wine red. Crozier ran his eyes over the racks of footwear and realised that the last time he had seen so many boots was in one of the little boats he had dragged across Somerset Isle. A reserve he said, for the men’s shoes wold soon wear through upon the march, although in truth they were to serve a dual purpose if supplies of food ran low. They had jettisoned them further on and now they lay abandoned in piles within the ice that he knew would now have formed around them. The place would be dark, he remembered, for the sun had only just returned and lingered for but an hour at this time of year.

‘Francis?’

He shook the image and glanced up to where James was standing o’er him with concern.

‘Hmm?’

‘You’re hating every moment of this aren’t you?’ he said quietly.

Crozier opened his mouth to agree and then caught the look of sorrow around James’ eyes. The man had been so thrilled to skip between the shops and babble about fashion. He had wittered on about nothing else for days. And now here Francis sat, in a childish sulk, spoiling his enjoyment. Had James not earned his right to play amongst his fabrics and designs? To dress them up in all the finery he wished, for no other reason than his own pleasure? He had watched the light of James’ joy die too many times to allow it to wither once more.

Francis smiled and stood. ‘I am tired of boots,’ he confirmed then placed an arm around James’ shoulder, leaning back to observe his face, ‘Come, show me the haberdashery instead.’

 

The haberdashery was an Aladdin’s cave of buttons and brocade. James rifled through them like a delighted miser through a stash of coins, picking out particular gems and making notes upon his itinerary about which frock coat to attach them to. Francis indulged him, prepared to overlook the sheer tedium of fashion and focus instead on the delight it seemed to bring. He had rarely seen James so animated. He had watched him tell many a fine tale but always with such an air of constructed imagination and oratory that any true enthusiasm was obscured by the skills of his art. Here he was but a child surrounded by toys and trinkets, unaware, shameless and exhilarated. His eyes were painfully bright, his smile wide and mobile and his constant litany of exclamation causing Crozier’s lip to twitch despite himself. James was pink cheek and elated. He could not deny him such joy.

‘Look!’

Francis wandered over to where James was rummaging through silver buttons.

‘Ships! Ships upon the fastenings!’

‘Have we not had enough of ships, James?’ Crozier said without any real derision. James held one up to his friend’s abdomen, testing how it might sit upon first his coat and then his waistcoat.

‘Just because you are no longer commanding them, Francis,’ he said twisting the thing until the ship sailed flat on settled seas, ‘Does not mean you should relinquish your past completely. It is a tribute,’ he explained adding the button to the tiny woven basket of other oddities.

‘I thought that was the point?’ Francis said, ‘To begin again anew? To forget?’

James looked at him from under lightly knit brows. ‘Is that how I made it seem?’ he asked.

‘Well…’

‘Lord I never wanted that. Francis you are a creature formed from your past, and while I wish very much that the worst of it may lie untouched, I would not have you forget. You were, you _are_ , one of the finest Captains who has ever sailed. It is your heritage, your character and yours to cherish.’

‘Cherish?’ Francis said disbelievingly. James hand came to between his shoulder blades.

‘There were good times as well as bad, hmm?’ he said gently, ‘Not all your memories of the sea are dark. Here…’ He paused before rummaging in the basket and retrieving the silver button. ‘See for yourself.’ He polished it briefly on his lapel before depositing it in Crozier’s upturned palm. It shone.

 

 

When the packages arrived the last of the winter had finally vanished and the air was warm. Crozier was seated upon the great patio at the back of the manor, and from where he reclined with a mug of warmed cider in one hand and a novel in the other, he could just about make out the first buds of the blossom upon James’s apple trees. When he had woken that morning, there had been birdsong. Now there was James shouting through the French windows.

‘They’re here! Francis!’

There was such urgency in his tone that Crozier actually spluttered on his drink and had to wipe drops from his waistcoat, but he didn’t suppose it mattered as James was probably about to thrust a dozen new garments in his direction and demand him change. Wearily, but perhaps with the faintest feeling of amused anticipation, he rose from his place and wandered into the drawing room.

James stood in the centre of a heap of brown paper and string. Francis snorted.

‘It is all here!’ James spun demonstratively and opened his arms. ‘Where to begin?’

Crozier slumped into an armchair and stretched out his legs. His feet made contact with rustling paper. He waved lazily towards the pile.

‘Begin wherever you please James, I assume amongst all this you have something in particular you wish to see first.’

James considered his treasures before all but diving upon one pile and extracting a fine dark wine frock coat. With the other arm he went for some cream trousers before finally flipping waistcoat after silk waistcoat over in a pile.

‘Lord, I cannot choose,’

Francis rested one finger at his temple and watched him affectionately. He could not help but smile as James chewed upon a thumb distractedly, his brown eyes flicking from green, to red, to purple to cream, to some sort of golden monstrosity he must have sneaked in when Francis had not been looking. Crozier waited, suddenly certain what James would choose.

Sure enough he went for the monstrous yellow. He held it up before him in the shadow of the drawing room and it clashed with every inch of subdued pastel wallpaper and taupe upholstery. If Crozier had attempted to wear his selected ensemble he would have ended up looking like a jaundiced great tit. Somehow however the colour did nothing other than bring out James’s dark features and darker hair, but then, Francis suspected, everything accentuated James’s already handsome looks. He had never failed to see him handsome, e’en in an unwashed shirt and torn greatcoat.

James slung his choices over his arm and then must more assuredly rummaged through the parcels to his left. He gathered what he desired and stepped over the paper to thrust a neatly folded stack at Francis.

‘Put this on.’

‘James it’s the middle of the…’ James cocked an eyebrow warningly, offered him a pair of high boots. ‘All right, all right,’ he gave in.

‘I shall change upstairs,’ James said and all but dashed from the room. Francis imagined him fussing around his dressing room like an excited girl. For himself, he could not quite muster the enthusiasm to traipse all the way up the curved staircase just to change his clothes, so he stripped off in the drawing room. They still had not employed any regular servants and the only creatures who might see were the cows in the field beyond. He gave a cursory glance at the clothes, noted with some relief their fairly subdued colours and proceeded to dress.

 

‘Come out to the hall when you are done!’ James called as Francis tugged his unlinked cuffs down beneath his sleeves. He had to admit he rather liked the shirt and the way its full sleeve puffed flatteringly around his wrist. The frockcoat obscured it of course but it was rather gratifying to imagine pulling the top layer away to reveal the pleasing shape of the linen bunched around his shoulders. He suspected James would agree.

His boots clicked across the bright marble hall as he ventured out from the drawing room. They were high and shockingly shiny, but they did add a rather masculine curve to his calf and the trousers which emerged from them were not obscenely tight after all, but rather gracefully cut over his still strong thighs. He tugged down the hem of the frock coat as he walked, feeling the tails swoop against the backs of his legs. It all felt rather stiff and new and the smell of delivery mothballs was barely obscured by the sprigs of lavender which had been packed within, but he had to confess, he was rather enjoying the feel of clothing made at last for him and him alone. Not borrowed, not too tight in places and loose in others, not half thread bare from use as were the dregs of his own personal wardrobe, but tailored and fresh and close cut to his figure.

He realised with a blush of shame that as he approached James, he wanted more than anything for him to be surprised. Surprised and delighted with the transformation or at least appreciative of it in some audible and measurable way. He wanted to watch him smile, see his pupils darken, have his fingers trace the collar of his waistcoat and the buttons beneath. He wanted very much for James to remove the clothes he had just spent ten minutes getting into or at the very least crush the new pressed fabric into creases.

James turned at the sound of him and Francis lost his breath, coming to a halt in the middle of the resplendent hall.

The dark frock coat was perfectly tailored. James shoulders could not have been more beautifully defined and the slope of his flanks to his narrow waist dragged Crozier’s wanting eye across his body with marked appreciation. His trousers were of the fashion, he noted, tightly tailored in all dimensions, clinging now to his thighs and above with eye popping distraction. That they were pale cream did not help hide the sins beneath their fabric. Francis swallowed. He forced himself to look at the boots as taut and shiny as his own but all the more alluring on James’ fine legs.

James flicked open the frock coat with a flourish, gave Francis a glimpse of its bright crimson lining and then gestured to the yellow waistcoat beneath his high starched collar and burgundy cravat. He twitched his eyebrows merrily.

‘I know you probably think its ghastly,’ he started, But…’

It seemed to glow like the sun upon a buttercup and even in the filtered light of the hall it cast up warmth and richness to James’s face. The brown of his eyes sparkled with gold, and even his hair seemed to capture it like stardust.

‘Christ…’ Francis said hoarsely.

‘Well come here, let me look at you,’ James said in response.

He felt suddenly rather inadequate next to the Adonis like creature before him but he stepped forward nonetheless to take James’s waiting hands as he leaned back to peruse his creation. He swung Francis’ arms out wide in his grip and then made a number of thoughtful mutterings and hummings. Dropping his fingers he stepped about him, taking him in from every angle contemplatively. This was not the delighted response Francis had hoped for and he wondered, crestfallen, if he simply looked ridiculous, if despite James’ best efforts he just would not come up to scratch and remained as ever a stocky, ginger, pock marked Irishman almost twenty years his senior. He felt his heart sink slowly. If it was not half fallen to pieces he would go upstairs and immediately change into his battered old uniform.

James had a hand on one shoulder and was propelling him forward to where a long mirror decorated one end of the hall.

‘I’m not sure,’ he was musing, ‘There’s something not quite right, here look for yourself.’

He positioned him accordingly and stepped back.  Reluctantly, Francis looked.

In the brighter light of the hall he could see now that the dark fabric of the frock coat was in fact a deep shade of blue and that the silken cravat about his neck was navy, reflecting and refracting in his eyes. The collar of the coat was of ornate brocade but subtle enough so not as to drown out the delicate pattern of the waistcoat. James had gone for the cream, he could see now, with flowers of pink and blue, and it fitted snugly with its own shawl collar wide and soft. He glanced down at the buttons and saw the tiny ships.

There was something of the military about the cut, and something of the sea, but there was gentleness there too; the trailing buds of flowers, the softness of the fabric, the luxurious wend of the cravat about his neck. He looked back at his face expecting a stranger in finery, and was surprised to see himself.

‘Take the coat off a moment?’

 James said.

Francis did so and James hung it over his arm, cocking an eye at the unfastened puffed sleeves of Francis’s new shirt, so white, so pure. At his back the dark cream silk of the waistcoat nipped in his waist, made his shoulders seem broader and stronger. Francis turned slightly in the mirror to inspect himself from behind, appraising himself with surprise. He might have thought his new garb a success had it not been for James’s uncertainty and it was James whom he felt above all he must please. Lord would he ever truly fit into his world?

When he turned back James was smiling, a quiver of barely repressed excitement in his jaw.

‘You look wonderful, Francis,’ he gushed, ‘Just… beautiful, that waistcoat is perfect for your skin tone and you were right about the blue, of course, it brings out your eyes.’

‘I feel a bit overdressed,’ Francis confessed, still unsure if he had done enough.

‘Underdressed I believe,’ James said, ‘Here,’ and he fished a box from his frock coat. ‘Well go on,’ he encouraged.

Francis took it and opened it with a shy smile.

‘Shall I put them on for you?’ James said, whipping them away before Crozier had really had a chance to look.  He let James raise his left wrist and deftly apply the cufflink before attending to the right. Slowly Crozier rotated his hand to see.

It was inscribed ‘F. C.’ the two letters entwined, the bars of the ‘F’ wrapped around the mid-section of the C. It was missing a couple of initials but Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier considered it a lovely gesture.

‘James these are wonderful, thank you,’ he let James finish with the other before casting a glance at that too. He frowned. The curve of a large C was entwined between the bars of an F.  James looked up sheepishly, clearly wondering if he had seen the significance and desperate to tell him.

‘I thought it was sneaky,’ he said mischievously,  ‘I mean to anyone who may see it merely looks like your initials but if you look closely… they are not yours but _ours_.’

‘You…? Crozier and _Fitzjames_?’ Francis puffed.

‘I thought of a ring,’ James said straightening up proudly, ‘But wondered if it might be too obvious. I mean you could wear it as a signet I suppose? But perhaps one thing at a time, hmm? Now pop that coat back on, old chap, give me the full effect.’

Gawping Crozier shrugged back into the frock coat and let James do up the silver buttons, adjust the cuffs that now bore their names. When he was finally satisfied, he stood back and stared for a full thirty seconds.

‘James what are you doing?’ Francis said self-consciously.

‘Remembering,’ he said distantly.

‘Remembering what?’

‘You, like this, properly dressed at last, that glow to your cheeks,’  he smiled softly, ‘I have too many memories of us in that place. Of darkness and ice and the aurora on your face. Of the awful journey home. Of you too thin, too sick, too pale… and while I do not wish to forget, Francis, for that is very much where you and I were forged, I wish… to make some new memories now, happier ones, with you…. This… It helps, do you see?’ and he looked at him embarrassed.

For all his peacock prancing, it had never been about the clothes at all.

‘Oh, James.’ Francis stepped forward and placed both hands upon his upper arms as he stood before him awkwardly. Crozier leaned in to kiss him once. ‘Where would you like to begin?’ he asked looking up at him kindly from under his brows.

James perked up a little. ‘Well I thought, now that you are smart at last, and clean and neat…’

‘Mmm?’ Francis hummed feeling a trip to London looming nigh, to the opera or the theatre, or God help him, dinner. He would do it, he would do it all, if it made him happy.

‘I thought,’ James considered with a playful purse of his mouth, ‘I thought I might see if I can’t go about making you a little _less_ presentable again,’ he let his offer hang for a moment, his lips parted, then tipped his head towards the stair.

Crozier followed his eye.

‘Oh…’ he mused as though weighing up a terribly difficult decision, ‘I see, well… if it would help.’

'It would...'

'And if you are not concerned that we may lose a button or two...'

'I have some thread somewhere...'

'Well, in that case!' he agreed. 'Lead on!'

James cracked a full and charming smile, wrapped his arms around Francis' waist and drew him close with his kiss. Tight within the golden halo of his buttercup yellow waistcoat.


End file.
